


when you've loved the wrong boy

by chifon



Series: dead boys [2]
Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: Angst, Drinking, M/M, Post-Deposition, Thunderstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29436087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chifon/pseuds/chifon
Summary: The deposition is over now, their story coming to its conclusion, and Eduardo is gone, gone, gone.
Relationships: Eduardo Saverin/Mark Zuckerberg
Series: dead boys [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2162229
Comments: 11
Kudos: 9
Collections: The Prompt Network





	when you've loved the wrong boy

**Author's Note:**

> so this fic exists bc i kind of wanted to peer into mark's headspace in this universe ig a bit bc ive been working in wardo's headspace for so long. it is highly recommended that you read the first part of the 'dead boys' series since it does contain spoilers ig to it, but not entirely necessary until like the last few paragraphs so you can still enjoy the majority of this fic. (also i kind of scrapped this together in a week, so im sorry about all the grammar mistakes)
> 
> enjoy !!

The thunder had just begun to rumble when Mark got back to his house.

It’s dark inside; so dark that shadows seem to swallow every single surface from the dining table to the couches as if it’s trying to make the world go pitch black, almost impossible to see anything through it all. Almost. 

Mark tries to turn on the lights, flicking it on and off a couple times to no avail. He wonders if all the lights on his street are out too. He wasn’t paying much attention to it while he was driving; well, the whole ride was a blur, too much on his mind to be aware of anything. He’s good at that: tunnel visioning. Once his brain gets wired enough, he can tune out anything. It helps when your environment is constant video game noises and frustrated shouts and drunken babble, but fails in the regard that every time he comes out of a long coding binge, he gets hit with all his bodily functions at once. 

Doesn’t stop him from doing it again though. He can’t control when and where his mind starts sprouting out new ideas; it just happens and then he finds himself rushing out of class, through the snow, back to his dorm because he has to get this down and when he comes out of it, it’s already dark outside. That’s why having Eduardo there helped.

Anyways, he’s lucky that he got home in one piece. 

He shouldn’t have. 

He needs a drink. 

Using his phone as a flashlight, he tries to navigate his way to the kitchen, not realizing, until he’s a few feet in, how much stuff he has in his house. He’s already almost tripped over a trashcan, stubbed his toe on what must be the couch, and knocked into a small table which ended up accidentally booting up something because there’s some dumb 60s song playing now. Probably from that stupid fucking battery powered suitcase record player that he got with the furnished home. He didn’t even know that it had a playable record in it. 

It takes him a bit, but he finally reaches his destination; unfortunately, the kitchen counter—from what he can tell—is completely clear. His housekeeper must’ve been by today; he never remembers when they’re supposed to come, but it's easy to tell when they do because there’s usually red bull cans and half empty bottles of booze lying around everywhere and he hasn't tripped over any of those yet. Also, he’s pretty sure that he left a bottle on the counter before he left to go to the attorney’s offices. 

He searches the cabinets, opening them up one by one because he has no idea where the rest of the alcohol is stored. Usually when Mark wants to drink, he picks up a bottle or a case on the way back from work; then, his housekeeper ends up putting it away in some place that he doesn’t bother to remember, and so the cycle continues. In the third cabinet that he checks, he finds the beer section: multiple cases, with just a slot or two missing from each one, crushed together in the tiny space. Mark decides to take out two cases; he doesn’t know what brands they are, it doesn’t matter anyways. Alcohol is alcohol. Plus, the only reason why you drink cheap beer is because you’re either broke, in school, want to get stupid drunk, or all of the above and stupid drunk is what he wants to get. 

Setting them on the counter, he rummages through the drawers, finding the silverware in one of them. He decides to use a spoon because continuing to search around for a bottle opener seems like a waste of time when he can easily pop it open with a spoon. It was just something that you learn in college like how you learn that people who row crew are all big, dumb jocks or the importance of final clubs.

He actually had to teach Wardo how to do it because apparently, rich kids actually use bottle openers if they’re not trying to play cool and slam it down onto the corner of the counter like they’re at some highschool party in a trashy coming of age movie. Embarrassingly enough, it was Wardo’s several poor attempts to slam the bottle open—frustrating Mark to the point that he broke away in the middle of his code, snatched the bottle, and cracked it open himself—that led to that lesson. At first, the short class in being a normal teenager went pretty badly, but Wardo soon got the hang of it, smiling so brightly when he opened a new one on his first try like he'd won the fucking lottery instead of accomplishing something that any fifteen year old could do.

 _“I was your only friend”_

Lightning shines through the windows, suddenly showering the whole place in light and he can now see the layout of the house, his house, from the kitchen table to the cabinets and it feels unfamiliar, gloomy, lonely, for some reason as if he knows deep down that this isn't home. 

_“You had one friend”_

Mark shakes his head and opens all of the beers up because why not? He’s going to drink them all anyways. The bottles pop open in tune to the drums from the music playing in the background, thunder roaring right when the guitar riff starts playing. He fills his head with it, trying to drown out everything else, drown out every pleasant memory that’s distorting itself into their painful conclusion because life isn’t a cheesy coming of age movie with hopeful endings and messages. 

He chucks down a beer and then another before grabbing two bottles to carry with him. Nodding his head, he steps fully into the darkness, finding and moving to the rhythm within it like he’s at a house party.

A house party with a guest of one. 

Mark doesn’t know where he’s going, doesn’t have to, doesn’t want to. What’s leading him is the alcohol warming his body, making his brain go all fuzzy, and the music beating within him. And he can’t help, but wonder that maybe if he’d done this instead, listened to Dustin’s advice, that he wouldn’t have met Eduardo at that party and his life wouldn’t be as fucked as it is. 

_“Don’t”_

_“I-I have to go, study,”_

_“Wait”_

_“I can’t”_

_“Why did you do it?”_

_“You were never going to choose me”_

“You were never going to choose me,” Mark says, taking another sip of his beer and he can feel the tears trailing down his cheek. It’s cold, much colder than Eduardo’s nails gently brushing along his cheek that one night when he thought that Mark was asleep. 

Light flashes again and he sees that he’s in the living room now and there’s a laptop sitting there on the coffee table. 

As the darkness comes back again, he shifts himself in between the couch and the table, bumping into both enough that his legs are starting to throb a bit. Thunder resounds through his too empty house as he plops down onto the floor, putting his beers on the table. Using his hands as a guide, he finds the laptop and opens it to reveal the last of the code he did before he had to go.

He wipes the tears from his face—wiping away the past, college, Wardo, everything—and starts coding again, knowing that this is all that he has left. 

**Author's Note:**

> im on twt: @matchibuns


End file.
